


for the peace of you I hold

by Eris (dwarrowkings)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 08:36:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20224939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwarrowkings/pseuds/Eris
Summary: Aziraphale makes Crowley dinner. Or, well, he's supposed to have done. And then there's a lot of kissing.





	for the peace of you I hold

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to sosobriquet, who I adore. She held my hand through writing this, and then was very kind about me not using any of the titles she put forth even though I begged for her help. You're the best, and I can't wait to see you! Also shout out to the very patient bf ghoat_recon, who had to listen to my cherry blues for the entirety of writing this fic.

It's still pretty new, this thing that they have. Not that thing but the thing where they have dinner more than once a century. Now they have to make plans. It’s nice.

The other new part is spending time in Crowley’s flat and seeing Crowley with his jacket off. His flat is warm, so there's no need for his usual long sleeves or jackets. Aziraphale doesn't mind the heat, if he gets to see Crowley's wrists and elbows on display like that. 

It's a normal day, but Aziraphale thinks they deserve something special. A celebration of their continued existence, after the Unpocalypse. Every day feels like a celebration, and Aziraphale hasn't figured out if it's because he's still alive, or if it's because he isn't trying to run away from Crowley while also trying to run towards him.

He gets to stand next to him, which feels best of all.

He catches Crowley coming out of his office, through the twirly door, and before Crowley can slink away, he wraps his hand around Crowley's wrist. Without thought his thumb brushes softly, sweetly against the tender skin of Crowley's forearm. "Crowley," he says, his voice pitched low, warm like a summer night, buzzing with the feelings they don't have to evade anymore. No more side stepping.

"Ngk" Crowley says, and Aziraphale can feel the stutter of his pulse, almost matching his own in his palm.

"How about dinner tonight?" Aziraphale uses his deliberately calm voice, because if he doesn't, he might be asking an altogether different question. "Should I pick something up to make, or do you want to go out?" He hasn't let go of Crowley's wrist, but Crowley still hasn't moved. Aziraphale gets the impression that he's trying not to startle. Or run away. He shakes his head, and seems to process the question.

"Whichever you prefer, angel." He says it like he always has, but now Aziraphale is listening more than worrying.

"I think I'll pick something up, then. Make something special." He dips his voice low, and can practically feel the drop and doubling of Crowley's pulse. Technically, he shouldn't even have one, a pulse, but it's been six thousand years, humanity has rubbed off on both of them.

"Is, wuh, sure. Whatever you say." He still seems startled, but this time it isn't the question that has him off balance, on guard.

"Just so," Aziraphale agrees. Instead of unwrapping his hand from Crowley's wrist, he pushes up, until his thumb is brushing up under the sleeve of Crowley's shirt in the fragile bend of his elbow. He curls his fingers around the back of Crowley's elbow, a little dry and - he laughs to himself- scaly, and tugs him the smallest bit closer. "See you tonight," he says, summer creeping back into his voice.

"Tonight," Crowley agrees faintly.  
__

In the end, Aziraphale only has to use a minor miracle for dinner. Not that it is, in the strictest sense, dinner at all.

Crowley takes a sip, "Mmn" he hums. "That's perfect, angel."

Aziraphale grips underside of his seat. You can only tell he's vibrating with nerves if you have access to more than one plane of existence. Or if you've been paying attention to him at all.

"So," Crowley asks, smiling gently and looking around expectantly. "What's for dinner?" Aziraphale's shoulders slump. He sighs, and cuts his eyes from Crowley's face to the coffee cup, still warm and smelling faintly of the whisky he had to nip in from Ireland. He doesn't say anything, but the silence speaks for him quite plainly.

"Angel," Crowley says, his voice warming up like the sun coming out. It's a realization, but not a smug one. "The coffee is very good. Just the way I like it." Aziraphale feels the tension ease out of his shoulders, but his nails still scratch the lip of the chair where he's holding on. "Have you got any more?

"There was supposed to be cake!" he blurts and then bites his lip. He wishes immediately that he could turn back time five seconds in a go.

"Cake?" Crowley asks, "You made a cake?"

"Yes," and even to his own ears, it sounds despairing. "But I ate it." His voice lowers guiltily, hushed and pointed towards the table more than it is at Crowley.

"Oh," Crowley says, "well, that's all right then." Aziraphale looks up at him, too surprised to be relieved. "Tell me about it?"

"Oh Crowley," he starts, and then flounders, "At first, I was going to make an angel food cake, to be clever, and then a devil's food cake, to be even cleverer." His mouth is moving now without direction from his brain. "So I got some strawberries, and while I was at the shop, I thought 'Oh, wouldn't some homemade icing be just the thing,' so I got some cream cheese and powdered sugar, and you know how I feel about cream cheese icing.” He licks his lips a little, remembering.

“It was all downhill from there. I made a chocolate sponge with the cream cheese do, but by the time it was done and chilled, it smelled so good, especially with the sliced strawberries. 'Just one piece,' I said to myself, 'just one so it looks pretty when he gets here,' and then before I knew it, it was all gone." His hands move up to cover his eyes, his stomach curling. There’s a small thunk of something hitting the table, which at the time, distracted by misery, Aziraphale assumes is Crowley’s mug. 

"I'm sorry I missed it; it sounds like it was lovely," There's something delicate about Crowley's voice when he says it that cuts a sharp slice into Aziraphale's shame. He looks up between his fingers and Crowley is smiling softly, glasses off.

He has one elbow propped on the table, his chin propped in it, the other hand curled around his mug of coffee, more than half gone, but still warm. If Aziraphale had to hazard a guess, he'd say that Crowley looked... content. Aziraphale is right on the money.

"It was lovely," Aziraphale says, calmed down enough to remember it fondly. "I got the icing just right the first time, no miracle residue, and the chocolate was dark, and the strawberries were tart and just sweet enough." He lifts his hand, a little motion of satisfaction. If gestures could talk, this one would say the phrase “cherry on top.” 

"Mmmm," Crowley says. He smiles, and lifts his chin out of his hand, lays it palm up on the table. Almost as if it's routine by now, Aziraphale puts his hand over top of Crowley's. It feels normal, right, even though it's never happened before. Like it could happen every day. Like a day where it doesn't happen could be out of the ordinary.

Aziraphale hopes it will be. 

Crowley shifts his knees first, under the table, and then the rest of his body, turned toward Aziraphale with the same ardency of a flower opening up toward the sun. Soaking up the warmth and somehow also reflecting it back. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. He’s not sure where the question is going to lead but before he can come up with something other than his name, Crowley answers him with a kiss. 

“Oh,” he says, against Crowley’s mouth, and gives himself over to sensation. Crowley’s mouth is slick and soft and clever, warming against his own. This feels right too, like it could happen every day. Like it should happen every day. 

“Thanks for dinner,” Crowley says, his voice hushed and reverent, the s a little elongated. On another plane, Aziraphale can feel his wings shift and settle into a new position. Just like that, everything is as it should be. Well, not everything, but there’s nothing rotten in the state of Aziraphale’s life at any rate. 

“Anytime,” he says, distracted. His lips tingle. Are they supposed to do that? He feels the hand that isn’t still holding Crowley’s lift up, and touch the tender skin of his lips. He wants to kiss Crowley again. Crowley shifts in the chair, and Aziraphale has a brief moment of panic. 

“Wait,” he says quickly, and Crowley stills, “Can we do that again?” He watches Crowley’s mouth almost curve into a smile, still a little red from kissing earlier. “I want,” he starts, his tongue suddenly dry, “I want to do that again.” 

Crowley stands, suddenly, their hands still pressed together. “Angel,” his voice like the cake from earlier, dark, and rich and just a little tart. “Of course.” The words are a relief, a balm. He stands, and Crowley leads him towards the sitting room.

Aziraphale kisses him before they get there, tugging Crowley in by his hand and curling the other over his shoulder. Crowley laughs into it, and it feels like flying. Like real flying, rushed and exhilarating. With a chest full of air that’s denser than the air around you. 

Crowley makes a small, feral noise in the back of his throat, and attempts to pull Aziraphale backwards into the sitting room while their mouths are still connected. It’s a noble goal, but ultimately doomed to failure. Crowley’s knees hit the arm of the couch, and he stumbles back, gripping Aziraphale’s hand for balance. 

His other arm windmills wildly, and Aziraphale runs his hand down over his shoulder, to catch him behind the arm and pull him back upright. They stay like that, hung for a moment, close enough to dance, if Aziraphale had learned any other dances.

“Thanks,” Crowley says, voice rough, and the shock of it slithers down his spine, leaving a hot trail in its wake. 

He steps forward again, careful not to overbalance Crowley, but pushing into Crowley’s space more firmly than he had before. Crowley makes high pitched noise in the back of his throat that Aziraphale would very much like to swallow. 

His mouth against Crowley’s feels like the most important thing in the world. He kisses Crowley again and again. Each time it feels revelatory. Heat settles in his belly, and his head swims. Does this body need to breathe? 

He pulls away and sucks in one huge gulping breath after another. It doesn’t really help. 

Crowley lowers himself to sit on the edge of the couch, but tilts his face up towards Aziraphale like a magnet. He seems to be drowning too. Aziraphale steps a half step forward, between Crowley’s thighs, and finally lets go of Crowley’s hand. 

Instead, he curls his hands around the back of Crowley’s neck and braces his thumbs under his jaw. Crowley’s eyes are wide, no whites to them at all, just gold and black begging him to do something, anything. 

Aziraphale has no choice but to give in. He kisses Crowley again, moving his hands down his neck to stroke lightly at his collarbones. 

He startles when Crowley slides his hands over his sides, not quite so delighted to find that this body is ticklish. Ridiculous, after 6000 years! It really should know better. 

“Sorry,” Crowley says,breathless. His mouth is slick and red, tempting as the apple. He kisses Crowley again, and feels Crowley’s fingers clench against his hips. 

“Not to worry, my dear,” Aziraphale says, “if I’d known that this body was ticklish, I’d have warned you.”

“You didn’t know you were ticklish?” Crowley asks, face lighting up with amusement. 

“Not much cause to find out,” Aziraphale says mournfully. “Though, I suppose I could have come back a little different, given that this isn’t the body I was originally issued.” He frowns, considering. 

“Sounds like you need to take it out for a spin,” Crowley says, borrowing a phrase from some 20 something he’d heard on the street, “for science.” 

“My thoughts exactly,” Aziraphale says, and kisses Crowley again.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Shakespeare's Sonnet 75:  
So are you to my thoughts as food to life,  
Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground;  
And for the peace of you I hold such strife  
As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found;  
Now proud as an enjoyer and anon  
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure,  
Now counting best to be with you alone,  
Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure;  
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight  
And by and by clean starved for a look;  
Possessing or pursuing no delight,  
Save what is had or must from you be took.  
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,  
Or gluttoning on all, or all away.


End file.
